


After the End

by Write_like_an_American



Category: Guardians of the Galaxy (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: (of sorts), Anal Sex, Fix-It, Gratuitous references to warriormale, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Nipple Play, Porn with plot and feelings, Team Bonding, Team as Family, Wrestling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-29
Updated: 2018-06-29
Packaged: 2019-05-30 12:08:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,306
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15096389
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Write_like_an_American/pseuds/Write_like_an_American
Summary: Rejoice, for Thanos has been defeated and his cull upon your realm undone! Mourn, for not all of those you lost have been returned.When everything is over and the dust has settled across the sun-scorched Wakandan plains, Drax offers Thor what comforts he can.





	After the End

**Author's Note:**

> **Struggling to find content for this incredible ship (not to mention enthusiasm about Drax, our new (practically) canon bisexual icon), I decided to live by my usual rule of 'if you can't find it, write it yourself'. Enjoy!**

Rocket grew close to the Asgardian during the Guardians’ year of absence. He dislikes seeing him so pathetic.

 

“He ought to give up,” he confides in Drax as they sit in the communal room of their suite. “Dead is dead, y’know?”

 

“We came back,” Drax points out. Rocket expects this; he has his head-shake primed and ready.

 

“Different, that. There was Infinity Stones involved. That weren’t _dead;_ just… science.”

 

Drax cuts a contemplative slice of meat. They breakfast on boerewors sausage and biltong _–_ jerky from a dark-fleshed creature known as a ‘coo’. Drax has yet to see one living, but he devoured two legs at the celebratory banquet, thrown by the Wakandans to celebrate the return of their king. Judging by the girth of their hindquarters, these _coos_ must be powerful sprinters. It speaks to the valor of their hosts that they hunt them with such success.

 

“It is magic,” he tells Rocket, “according to the strange doctor.”

 

Rocket selects a fork from the spotless cutlery basket and, rather than introducing it to their meal, uses it to pick threads of meat from between his little fangs. “Well, you tell the _Strange Doctor_ that Magic’s just science that ain’t been figured out yet. Leave me alone with an Infinity Stone for a week – I’ll show ya what makes it tick.”

 

Now, Drax’s language may be literal, but his mind holds more than ample faculties for imagination. Picturing the horror on the Doctor’s pasty face is most humorous. “Our new compatriots may baulk at handing the greatest weapon in the galaxy to a battery thief.”

 

Rocket groans. “Yeah, well. You thought it was pretty damn funny at the time - and the Sovereign were idiots, anyway.”

 

“Most stupid,” Drax agrees. Anyone who wages a vendetta against their crew deserves everything they get – which is usually plasma bolts, several of them through the vital organs.

 

Rocket belches into one paw and snags his next strip of biltong with the other. “They don’t want me to nick their shit? They should up their security.”

 

“No – you would take that as a challenge.”

 

“Maybe so, big guy. Maybe so. Look, these a-holes wanna lock that gauntlet away, not even look at it, make like it doesn’t exist? They better not come crying to me when the next sod wipes out half the universe.”

 

Drax nods. “It ought to be destroyed.”

 

“No, it ought to be _studied._ Anyway, breaking the damn thing’s off the table. Remember what happened last time you tried?”

 

Drax grimaces. After embracing his crew and indulging in the obligatory victory-yodels of his people, he was first to hurl himself upon the gauntlet (which lay disembodied, Thanos having long since faded: a shade trapped between planes, a residual screaming shred of consciousness that would echo forever a beat out of sync with the universe he sought to save).

 

The stones repelled Drax into a nearby rhino herd at considerable velocity. According to their handler, Drax was lucky not to return to the world of the dead on a more permanent basis.

 

“I will leave the gauntlet for now,” he decides, pushing back his chair.

 

After snagging one last segment of boerewors – heavily spiced, so aromatic that the smell sits on his tongue long after he swallows – he dunks his greasy fingers in a nearby jug of scented water (“I think that’s meant for drinking, buddy – oh, hey. Not anymore.”) and swaggers for the exit.

 

“Clearly, it is Thor who requires my companionship. I shall seek him out and we shall talk of his brother, man to man.”

 

Rocket sniggers. “’Talk’,” he says.

 

“Indeed, that is what I said. Is your translator malfunctioning?”

 

“Nah.” Rocket carves a sliver from the ‘man-go’ (a sweet gold fruit to which Mantis is partial, currently serving as centrepiece in a mountain of dates, figs, and other such succulent yet dangerously fibrous delights). He tosses it up and snaps it out the air, though his beady black eyes never leave Drax's. “What I mean is, you don’t wanna _talk_ to Thor.”

 

Drax suspects he’s missing something. “On the contrary, I do. I enjoy his company. He is a paragon of masculine virility, the highest exemplar of manhood inhabiting this realm.”

 

Rocket chokes on his man-go. “ _Stars._ You’ve only been back a decacycle and I’m already sick of hearing you talk about his _manhood_.”

 

Drax crosses his arms. “You do not appreciate our friend’s musculature?”

 

“I think you do a bit more than _appreciate,_ buddy.” Rocket finishes coughing, after hacking a half-chewed yellow lump onto the table mat. “Have fun, use protection.”

 

“Protection?” Drax reaches for his knives. “Do we anticipate an attack? Have Thanos’s surviving children come to avenge their father?”

 

Rocket’s groans. He waves a wizened sprig of biltong in a motion that, over his careful study of his companions’ mannerisms, Drax has learnt means _shoo._

 

“ _STDs_ , numbnuts. Thor’s been alive for over a millennium. Who knows where he’s been?”

 

“Ah.” Drax tucks his thumbs into his belt, pleased to have sussed the metaphor. “By ‘protection’, you are referring to condoms. Should I engage in intercourse with Thor, I will be sure to take adequate precautions.”

 

Rocket blinks at him. “Didn’t even deny it. Huh. Guess you really do wanna tap that godly ass?”

 

“I fail to see how merely tapping it would bring about orgasm.”

 

“Fuck, buddy. Tap means _fuck._ ”

 

Ah. Rocket is Drax’s friend, and Drax would gladly shank any who spoke ill of him, but every now and then, Drax must admit that he can be a little stupid. “I don’t want to _fuck_ Thor,” he says, shoving his knives back into his ankle holsters.

 

The sausage-fat coating on Rocket’s whiskers glimmers in the rich equatorial light. “You don’t? I’m kinda getting mixed messages here.”

 

Drax chuckles at his ignorance. “I desire for our Asgardian ally to penetrate my anus,” he tells Rocket with a fond shake of his head. “His penis is a stupendous specimen even while flaccid. While I would relish the weight of his calves upon my shoulders, the thought of his turgid shaft thrusting between my buttocks never fails to make my nethers engorge.”

 

“Dude! I’m trying to eat!”

 

Drax’s brows meet in the middle. “I am not stopping you. Although perhaps I should – you are significantly more rotund than when I last saw you.”

 

Rocket pats his growing belly. “Hey, cut me some slack. I watched Groot turn to dust, remember? That sorta shit stays with you. Anyway, according to my species’ specs on this planet, I used to be like, seriously underweight.”

 

“You are fatter than Peter.”

 

“Now _that’s_ just uncalled for. My species don’t got that long a lifespan anyway – call it middle age spread.”

 

Drax chortles. However, as amusing as their banter is, Drax has more important matters to attend to.

 

“Save some man-go for Mantis,” he tells Rocket, turning for the elevator.

 

The Wakandan King, T’Challa, has granted the Guardians a suite within his own palace, which overlooks the dusty tumble of the city. The view is tolerable. Not as beautiful as the landscape on Drax’s own rugged homeworld, which becomes illogically more majestic in his memories the longer he stays away. But for Terrans, it’s impressive.

 

The windows wedge open at the top – a necessity in the summer heat – and the rooms swirl in a donut around a central column, so that the breeze might circulate unimpeded by corners. The scents of a thousand spices float up from the nearby souk, from mellow and fruity, to bitter and inducive of sneezes. Flies cluster around lure-lights, which seal once a minute and suck the unfortunate pests away up a pneumatic tube.

 

Wakanda is a cheerful enough place: the streets aflap with fabrics printed in a thousand loud patterns and a hundred clashing hues. Drax catches fragments of speech from the milling citizens: traders calling their pitches, animated haggling, the burble of ancestral languages preserved for generations by a lack of contact with the outside world.

 

“Hey,” says Rocket, before he can close the elevator’s sleek glass doors. “If ya see Groot down there, tell him not to get too attached to the Terran brats.”

 

“Shuri and other-Peter? Why not?”

 

Groot has spent little time with those his own age. Drax might’ve dedicated himself to Thanos’s annihilation, but before Ronan eradicated his race, he prided himself on his fathering skills more than his murdering ones.

 

“Socialization is a vital part of an adolescent’s education,” he tells Rocket. “You cannot complain about his attachment to his game console when he has no peers with which to associate.”

 

Rocket doesn’t look at him. His tail swishes slowly, once, twice, before curling around his leg. “Quill’s orders,” he mutters. “We leave start of the next decacycle. Back to our corner of the Silver Spiral, check in on Kraglin.” He glances at Drax from the corner of his eye. “So don’t you go putting down no roots neither.”

 

Ah. This is a warning. Drax inclines his head. Sunlight brindles across his scars, the bead-strings at the window casting the room with thin filaments of shadow.

 

He understands. It saddens him, especially considering his desire to sink onto Thor’s penis, nuzzle his mighty pectorals, gasp and rock together as their bulging muscles quake. But he will not fight this. He will not defy his captain.

 

This world has always held sour memories for Quill. Terra might, in his words, have _the best music in the galaxy_ (Drax remains unconvinced) but it also signifies everything he left behind when Yondu stole him, and everything to which he chose never to return.

 

Now he has another loss to mark on his tally. Here was where Thanos made his final stand. And now, one year later, Loki is not the only one who didn’t come back.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

The Avengers will be relocating to their New York headquarters once they have finalized the conditions for the gauntlet’s confinement. For now though, the juvenile Peter (it turns out that Terrans are incredibly uninventive when it comes to names) takes his classes remotely, through a holoscreen designed by Shuri and grudgingly okayed by Stark.

 

Drax had enquired why he was not obligated to sit in her lessons, as they seemed to be of similar size - at which the princess proceeded to laugh until she sagged against the nearest wall, her puny knees knocking, while Peter-the-smaller shamefacedly muttered something about an incompatible curriculum. As he refused to enter the state-run Wakandan kindergarten, remote tutoring it was.

 

Right now though, education isn’t the objective. When Drax enters the Avengers' main living space he finds Groot, Shuri and Peter clustered around the holoscreen, Thor at their centre. He dwarfs the trio of teenagers, who giggle most uproariously behind branches and cupped palms.

 

"What are you looking at?"

 

Thor breaks away from the hologram. He beams, beard lit from below by the blueish artificial light. Drax’s heart palpitates most alarmingly. “Drax, my friend! Good morning to you.”

 

Peter-in-miniature waves. "What's up?"

 

"Dog," says Drax patiently, as the Man of Iron assured him this was the correct way to respond. Then to Thor, once the trio have stifled their laughter: “The morning is acceptable by my standards, as nothing has yet exploded.”

 

Thor hums. “Would that make it better, or worse?”

 

“Better, obviously. What are you watching?”

 

Shuri digs her bony elbow between Peter-junior's ribs. "Hey, he might like this. What do you think, Groot?"

 

Groot’s shyness emerges in the young Avengers’ company. Anyone inexperienced with teenagers might refer to him as _surly,_ but Drax recalls watching Moondragon lurk at the edge of the yearly festival dance, glowering at her feet, making her face so fierce that no one wanted to approach her as if that gave her control over her loneliness.

 

Groot shrugs, scratching the flaky bark on his side. "I am Groot," he mutters, and taps a message on the pad Shuri gave him, holding it up for their inspection.

 

"Yeah," Peter-in-training agrees. "He _does_ look like one of the wrestler guys."

 

"So does Thor," Shuri points out. Then, with a titter Drax thinks unbecoming of the second-in-line to the throne: "Maybe _they_ should wrestle."

 

"That would be the height of manliness," Peter agrees.

 

"Unyielding, unbending, unrelenting manliness," says Shuri.

 

"I am Groot." Scribble-scribble, flash of the pad.

 

"Train and fight," Peter reads. Then he and Shuri shout "Warriormale!" in synchrony, while Groot flexes his non-existent biceps and Thor looks mildly amused.

 

Mildly amused is better than the last time Drax saw him, poking a green robe on a rack as they wandered through the markets, whispering _brother, is that you_ beneath his breath.

 

"I know not of whom you speak," he tells the children. They do not seem to mind. "This male warrior. He is a friend of yours?”

 

“No,” says Shuri, her face oddly hollow, as if she is sucking the inside of her cheeks. “He’s more of… a celebrity.”

 

“And it’s _Warriormale,_ ” adds Peter-junior. “All one word.”

 

Drax nods. “A strange name. Though not a surprising one, considering your culture.”

 

That makes the boy’s forehead pucker. “What do you mean, our culture?”

 

“Simply that your people cultivate odd ideas about the role of gender in society. Quill once confided in me that he thought _all_ women were worse fighters than him, before he met Gamora.”

 

There it is. That name; the one they've all been avoiding.

 

Groot shrinks in his chair. The bush growing from the top of his head curls on itself, leaves shrivelling brown.

 

Peter-in-miniature hastens to change the subject. "Yeah, but Quill left earth in the eighties, right? I mean, he still says _dude._ "

 

Drax frowns. "What is wrong with 'dude'?"

 

"Nothing, if you're Quill's age! But, y’know? A lot's changed since he was a kid."

 

"Maybe in America," says Shuri, with an obnoxiously loud sip of her coconut juice. "Women in Wakanda have been fighting on equal status with men since the middle-ages."

 

Thor nods along. "You would have liked Asgard, Princess. Our borders were patrolled by the Valkyrjur in the days of old."

 

Shuri slurps again. "Oh yeah, big guy? How old are we talking?"

 

"Long before your species left the trees," says Thor, as if this is of little consequence. "Our second queen, Auðumbla..."

 

Peter-junior holds up his hand. "Wait, wait. Au-thumbla?”

 

“Auðumbla,” Thor corrects.

 

“Yeah, her. Wasn't she the giant cow?"

 

"The..." Thor looks mystified for all of five seconds. Then his grin splits across his face, making Drax very aware of his penis. Rather than focusing on that curl of _want_ inside his genitals, Drax concentrates on the smile. He sees how it is broad and well-practiced and so very almost genuine. "You mortals create the most amusing myths. You truly believe yourself to have been licked into existence from a giant's armpit?"

 

Peter grimaces. "Well, not _really..._ Those myths are pretty old."

 

"I am Groot?"

 

"Way older than 'dude'."

 

"By about a millennium," Shuri agrees.

 

"Auðumbla," Thor continues, his eyes creasing to match his smile as the children chatter, "was a great queen. Before my father conquered the nine, she rose up to defeat the first tyrant Jötunn Frostking, Ymir. She founded the Valkyrjur to fend off their raids on our borders." But then his face sinks, as if the very flesh weighs heavy. "At least, that is what my father told me. After all that I discovered during my sister's reign, I know not what to believe."

 

The children exchange glances. Then Groot scribbles on his pad and waves it under young-Peter's nose so exuberantly the boy has to catch his wrists and exert some of his improbable strength - far too much for such a spindly form - to keep him still.

 

"It's okay," Peter-the-smaller reads, squinting at Groot's handwriting. Quill has been teaching him, as best he can since he never passed 'fifth grade' (this being an important milestone in the Terran coming-of-age). "You just have to keep fighting. Like Warriormale."

 

"Yes." Thor pushes to stand, both palms flat on the table. "Like Warriormale. I am sorry, children. As amusing as this has been, talk of my lost world darkens my mood. I find myself in need of fresh air."

 

He nods to the three of them, regal as the king he is supposed to be. Just admiring the roll and curve of muscle that stretches his tight Wakandan shirt makes Drax's breath pull short.

 

"Thor," he says, as the Asgardian strides to the door. "May I accompany you on your quest?"

 

"My quest is for briouat.” Thor slants his eyes at the princess, mischief animating his features. “Wakanda, for all its luxuries, does not know of the tarts that pop."

 

"Oh, we _know_ of pop-tarts." Shuri rocks her chair back on its flexible stem so that she can rest her kneecaps on the table edge, draining the last of the cloudy nut-milk from her glass. "We just don't stuff our population full of processed sugars. We've had our nutrition department look it over, and turns out that stuff really _is_ more addictive than cocaine."

 

Peter-junior tips his chair to match, and Groot follows peer pressure. He must be as bewildered by their Terran jargon as Drax, although he refuses to show it. "That's great and all _,_ but you've also gone your whole life without a McFlurry, so uh. You lose that round, princess."

 

Drax pays him no attention, nor the young royal, who sets to defending her country's isolationist trade policy with admirable vigor.

 

"The tarts that pop?" he asks Thor. Thor nods.

 

"They are most delicious. A delicacy of young Parker's homeland, the Newer of the Yorks."

 

Young Parker shrugs. "Close enough."

 

Thor walks around the table, his vast biceps testing the elasticity of his shirt. His rolling gait reminds Drax of the Muraghi-beasts that stampeded across the grassy vegas of his homeworld, their raw power trembling the earth.

 

Were Peter-the-elder privy to his lustful thoughts, he would make some crass joke about Drax wanting to saddle Thor up and take a ride (after he had finished grumbling at being called 'Peter-the-elder', of course). But Drax does not want to saddle Thor. He does not want to constrain him in any way - and more importantly, he does not want for this grief to drown him, as it once drowned Drax, so many years before.

 

"Let us browse the market," he says, grasping Thor's shoulder. It could not be more perfect - sculptural, firm, warm with life. "We will hunt for your _briouat_. We will converse. We will wrestle like this Warriormale and enjoy the sun as it tans our bare flesh.”

 

Thor nods, his false eye blinking a fraction too slow. "A fine plan, my friend." If the cheer in his voice is forced, then Drax is not yet astute enough in the ways of alien cultures to recognize it.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

The elevator can transport every surviving member of the Guardians crew and still leave space for a nervous janitor, yet it illogically feels overcrowded when it is Drax and Thor alone. Perhaps that is because Drax stands so close beside him that their triceps brush when they breathe. He does not wish to test this hypothesis by moving away.

 

The air is artificially cooled, wobbling into the glass pod through grills in the floor. But the sun still strikes Drax's face, pouring over his scarified chest. He basks in it. It is a rare day in space when you can peel the opaque flaps off the portholes and let yourself luxuriate in the light of a star - not unless you wish to risk blindness.

 

Terra's atmosphere is suitable for sunbathing, the ozone perhaps a little thin towards the poles. It is funny how Drax never realizes how much he misses the simple joys of being planetside - unrationed food, free-flowing water, air that tastes of dust and light rather than filters overdue a scrub - until he has them again.

 

They shoot towards the palace's lower floors, admiring the curvaceous architecture of the city – the clay-red aqueducts, the pillars hatched with Terran glyphs, the undulating aluminium skyscrapers, their oil-black surfaces bouncing back the sun.

 

"Quite magnificent, is it not?" Thor asks him. Drax considers the question.

 

"It is," he agrees, finally. By Terran standards. "But it is not home."

 

"No." Thor looks at him then; truly looks, backlit against the cloudless cyan sky. "It is not."

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

The briouat will suffice for a mid-morning snack. 'Puff' pastry is not something Drax has had the pleasure of sampling before. He enjoys the crunch of it, the flakes that coat his teeth, even though the paste - made of 'ar-monds', the vendor informs him - is far too cloying.

 

He pulls faces, cross-eyed in his efforts to detach it from where it has glued itself to the back of his tongue. The vendor crosses her ample arms, muttering about _ungrateful tourists_ and _this is what you get for opening the border._

 

Thor defuses the situation with a jolly laugh. He informs her that Drax's palate has yet to adapt to Terran sapors - at which point she stammers something about not realizing they spoke Xhosa, and treats Drax to a savory briouat on the house.

 

Drax doesn't bother mentioning the universal translator in his neck. He nods to her and turns away with a belch to show his approval.

 

Thor lingers a little longer, making pointless effusions of thanks. He offers her a 'credit card' stencilled with the Man of Iron's name (which she tuts at and calls 'outdated technology', waving it before a handheld scanner). Thor chortles his agreement, winning a smile and a puff of flour dust that sticks most distractingly to his hair and the tip of his nose.

 

They wander past the basket weavers, sat on stools, dust tickling their shins. Watching them work reminds Drax of the long twilight days on his homeworld, mosquitoes droning around the paper lanterns. He would steady the bushel of reeds while Hovat wound them together, under and over, over and under, her deft gray fingers flashing in a rhythm.

 

Young women, their heads bound in scarves, pound yams to starchy mush in bowls of river clay, etched with zigzags and concentric circles under the glaze. Children scamper along the street, their laughter bubbling after them. Some whoosh by on hoverboards, tapping away at their pads, while others dash beneath. Their smiles gleam brilliant white in their small brown faces. Thor beams at them when they wave, and Drax cannot help but emulate.

 

But as pleasant as the market is, there are too many youngsters present for Drax to invite Thor to engage with him in coitus. Terrans have such prude sensibilities.

 

"Thor," he says, drawing to a halt. Thor walks a pace before realizing he is not at his side.

 

"Yes?"

 

Drax nods past the bustle of the streets, the cocktail of smells, the spice and the smoke from the wood-fire ovens. "Let us find somewhere to wrestle."

 

Thor sets his shoulders straight, thrusts out his chest. His smile crinkles his sad blue eyes. "I thought you'd never ask."

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

A circular plateau sets the parameters of their match, ten meters in diameter. It extends from the cliffs above the waterfall, where a thousand caves of varying depth impregnate the pink-striped bedrock. One dimples the wall behind them, shallow enough that the shadow cast by the entrance only just brushes the back. The pound of the river diving over the cliff is constant as the _Quadrant's_ thrusters during atmospheric escape.

 

Drax pulls one arm in front of his chest until the stretch prickles across his lats, then repeats on the opposite side. He rotates his shoulders, rolls his hips from side to side, kicks up to hit his hamstrings and leans into his adductors, before crossing to the sun-lit side of the plateau and beckoning Thor towards him.

 

Thor slips his thumbs from where they are hooked into his waistband and sinks into a ready position. No limbering up required - he is perfect as he is.

 

"Rules?" he asks.

 

"Shoulders to the ground for ten seconds," Drax replies. "Knocked out the ring, or a tap out."

 

Thor shakes his head. His smile stretches his face most pleasantly, but it would suit him far more if his blue eyes matched. "I meant, what am I allowed to do to you?"

 

"Anything, of course."

 

He squares up, angling his shoulders in an offensive. Then, after giving Thor a generous second to prepare himself, he lunges.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

Drax struggles with metaphors, although he has improved somewhat over four years in the Guardians' company. Similes are easier. He can say when one thing reminds him of another.

 

Like how the voluptuous curve of Thor's muscle, burnished by sweat and sun, reminds him of molten gold. Like how the blunt ache of an elbow smacking his gut reminds him of every fight, every enemy he tore asunder that he might reach this point in time: this place, this man, this match.

 

They clash. Sweat flies. It evaporates away, crumbs of salt glittering on the rock.

 

They grapple, arms hooked under pits, legs wedged apart. They squat, low and grunting, rocking back and forth, testing their opponent’s grip.

 

One tremors, shows weakness. The other strikes.

 

It is a give, a take, an ebb and a pull, a dance and a fight all in one. Drax, a laugh of pure exhilaration bubbling up from his belly, thinks (with an uncharacteristic lack of logic) that they should do this forever.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

It takes ten minutes for matters to escalate. A winner has yet to be determined, but it is just a matter of time.

 

Thor's shirt is home to a hundred shapes: circles, triangles, rectangles, all executed in pointillist dots. Those shapes distort where the shirt clings to his back muscle, straining with the heave of his ribs.

 

"Would you not be more comfortable without this?" Drax jams himself against Thor, gluing skin to shirt to skin. His fingertips graze Thor's nipples, where they press through the tight-stretched cloth. "I find that they chafe."

 

Perhaps he should have warned him of his intentions. Thor jumps. His mighty pectorals bulge, and the seam beneath his arm responds with a worrying _pop._

 

A circle of cream-bronze skin, no larger than a Terran nickel, glows between the snapped stitches. It captures Drax's eyes, pulling them back whenever they stray.

 

 _Oh,_ he thinks. Then, with a surge of heat: _I think I want to lick that._

 

It's the distraction Thor's been waiting for. His shoulder bashes Drax in the solar plexus, folding him around it.

 

Thor unhooks their legs. He skips away with far too much agility for a man of his size. Dodging Drax's back-flung elbow, he grips him by the flanks and spins him forcefully for the edge of their ring.

 

Drax reels. His boot treads skid and slither over wet rock. Mist from the falls slaps him, a welcome relief from the midday sun. The ledge approaches, and Drax bellows his fury at his impending dunking, and…

 

A hand closes on his wrist. Thor swings him around on his own momentum.

 

Drax stumbles, staggers, falls. But his back thumps rock, and no current sucks him towards the thundering edge. He has a moment to be thankful before Thor hammers down on top of him.

 

Air explodes from Drax's lungs, spit from his mouth. Thor is everywhere. Golden, bulging, glowing, his short-cropped hair stiff with sweat.

 

One leg crushes over Drax's while the other scoops his thigh to hook on Thor's waist. They slide together corkscrewed, the muscles of Thor's abdomen slotting against Drax's, only one thin shirt between them.

 

That is not the only reason Drax suddenly struggles to breathe. A penis rests between his legs, weighing heavy on his.

 

Need tugs low in his belly. It pulls inside him, lifting his testicles close to the shaft.

 

For a moment, he is too shocked to move. That doesn’t last. As Thor finishes the count – “Eight! Nine! Ten!” – and chortles his victory to the cloudless sky, Drax sucks a breath of the parched dusty air, and rolls his hips.

 

Thor freezes.

 

“What are you doing?” he asks. But despite the question in his voice, he stays right where he is –the two of them belly to belly, their legs a sweaty crossroads, Thor’s forearms braced on Drax’s bare, scarred chest.

 

Drax pushes into the pressure. He can’t shuck Thor’s mammoth body, not at this angle (and wouldn’t even if he could) but he is more than capable of scraping them together, sliding his thigh higher up Thor’s side, pinching his muscular waist with his calf to pull him further down.

 

“Simulating sex. Is it not obvious?”

 

Thor shakes his head – not in denial, just bemusement. “Why?”

 

“In the hopes that we will move beyond a simulation.” Drax rolls again. This time – slowly, tentatively – Thor pushes back.

 

“You wish to have sex with me, Drax?”

 

Quill claims that it is unattractive to ask for such things directly, citing long decades of womanizing experience. But Thor is no woman. He is magnificently, gloriously male, his muscle braided and thick, his penis twitching against Drax’s own.

 

“I want you to fuck me,” he says. Then, in case that is not clear enough: “I have wanted you to fuck me since the first day we met.”

 

“Oh?”

 

He must desire details. “Your face,” Drax says, “is almost as handsome as my own.”

 

Now Thor has the rhythm he rocks into it, a light and unhurried friction that stirs Drax wild. “So modest!”

 

“Your thighs… your quadriceps. They promise a powerful thrust. The legends of this planet pay homage to your priapic accomplishments, and...”

 

Thor crooks a brow. “’Priapic accomplishments’?”

 

Drax grasps a meaty haunch, dragging Thor against him with more urgency. “They say… They say that you are a god of male fertility.”

 

“Well.” Thor shrugs. He talks as if they are out for a stroll, even as he responds to Drax’s spurring, upping the pace, letting him catch a glimmer of raw, unadulturated  _power_ _._ “Some of those statues are a little exaggerated.”

 

That may well be true, but when that priapus is fucking between your legs it feels very accomplished indeed. Thor’s hair clumps dark, glittering with spray from the falls. His nails rake bluntly over Drax’s pecs – he arches when they graze his nipples but finds that even that is not enough to budge the godling’s weight.

 

Thor hums. And, watching Drax’s face, he deliberately places a thumb over each taut green areola, and drags it in a half-moon beneath.

 

Drax jack-knifes. Or at least, he tries to.

 

Thor keeps him pinned. He rides out the buck with a bright flash of teeth, his laugh booming joyously over the rumbles and crashes of the river. Once Drax subsides – twitching, shuddering – he lays one palm flat over his racing heart, brushing the tips of the scarified flame.

 

“Yours beats on the right,” he observes.

 

Drax does not wish for a theoretical lesson on the variations in alien anatomy. Not when he could be enjoying the practical. He tosses his head to the side when Thor pinches his nipple, rolling it between finger and thumb, hips slowing to a dawdle as if they can eke this out all day.

 

And perhaps he can. He is a god, after all. But Drax is only a mortal, and…

 

His jaw clenches hard enough to hurt his teeth.

 

“Thor,” he grits. “If you plan on putting your penis inside me, now would be the optimal time.”

 

“Hm.” Thor pushes his leg. It slips easily from his waist, spreading Drax wide. Drax crunches up, craning over his trembling abdominals to where his penis throbs at full-bloat, pulsing through his lightweight summer pants. Dampness soaks the fabric, scented with his pheromones, hot and mustard-sharp. “Why is that?”

 

“Because…”

 _Stars,_ he just keeps going. Relentless, merciless, tireless, and _by every god in the galaxy,_ Drax isn’t going to last…

 

Thor’s smile is bright and friendly as ever. “is it because you are about to cum in your pants?”

 

He twists Drax’s nipple again. The noise that leaves Drax is far too high for his vocal cords. He _shakes,_ wracked from the effort of staving it off, stopping the sperm from bursting out of him. He’s so wet he’s soaked his fly, dribbling over his balls and down the inside of his leg.

 

“I – I” –

 

But then, just as he’s ready to give in and ejaculate, Thor pulls away.

 

Drax gapes inelegantly. How _dare_ he.

 

His body ruts up, flexing for the fuck. When Thor denies it him he _keens,_ a noise he’s never heard from his own mouth, and crashes back against the lichen-crackled rock, panting in ragged rasps.

 

Thor chuckles. His hand smooths Drax’s chest. It cups his throat, then his cheek, the thumb pad sweeping roughly under his eye, brushing the quivering lashes.

 

“Turn over,” says Thor, warmly, kindly. “I would fuck you deep.”

 

Drax stares up at him: silhouetted against the sun, light haloing his sweat-spiked fringe. “Yes,” is all he manages. “ _Yes._ ”

 

Thor has to help him onto his hands and knees. He’s very merry about it, tickling Drax’s nipples until he squirms.

 

“ _Thor…_ ”

 

Thor huffs animal-hot against his jugular. “You will say my name again,” he promises, gathering himself a heavy handful of testicles to squeeze. “Many times.”

 

Then – air, blissfully cool, hitting his buttocks. Fingers push between his legs. A test, a probe.

 

"May I?" whispers the godling with a lick at the shell of Drax’s ear. His breath smells of pastry and sweet almond paste.

 

Drax nods. He nods until he’s giddy with it, as if the sun has gone to his head, Thor's hand trapped in his sweaty crack by the elasticated waistband. Thor purrs his approval, peeling his pants out the way.

 

“Good. You are a fine man. It is an honor to take you like this.”

 

 _More of an honor to be taken,_ Drax wants to insist, but then there is the crude sound of Thor spitting on his fingers.

 

“Reach behind yourself,” he tells Drax. “That’s it. Open for me.”

 

Drax has a fine posterior. Were it not for the laws of basic decency, he would gladly show it off. But like this, his weight boring down on his knees and his sensitive chest, the rock blazing beneath him and Thor and the sun vying for which can be hottest on top, there is something shudderingly lewd about it: parting his own buttocks that Thor might slick up his hole.

 

“Thor…”

 

The first finger slips in sweet. Drax is eager to grip it, greedy for more, so Thor gives him what he desires and scissors for good measure.

 

“You’re so pink on the inside,” he tells him, kissing the flames of twisted scar tissue that crawl up Drax’s spine. “So soft.”

 

A word that is rarely levelled against him – but in that moment, Drax feels it. As if he is melting around Thor as he hooks towards his belly, fucking him with practised curls.

 

“Thor!”

 

The lips on his spine form a smile. “Ah. You are ready, I think.”

 

From the size of the penis Drax felt earlier, they may require a little more than two fingers and spit. But Drax is too far gone to protest, rocking back, uncaring for the graze of the lichen against his throbbing nipples.

 

Thor’s cockhead rests on the breach, plump and sticky. Then, smoothly, it eases in.

 

Drax clenches. His nails score his heavy glutes, his jaw drops. It seems a copious quantity of pre-cum is requisite to being a fertility god – friction is not an issue. But the _stretch…_

 

Thor purrs again. The leonine rumble shakes through Drax and into the earth below.

 

Big hands fasten on his hips, then slide beneath. They tug him with a confidence that can only come from experience, firm enough to bunch the foreskin around Drax’s dripping glans.

 

“You can take this,” he tells Drax, as if he knows it. All the while his cock presses deeper, filling and filling and _filling,_ dilating Drax, prising him apart. “Ah yes. Your insides – they are starting to pull on me. You wish for more.”

 

Drax feels himself respond to the words almost before he hears them. It is as Thor says; he adjusts, sinking lower, his pants straining between his wide-spread thighs. His back undulates as he rocks rearwards, trying to fit more inside.

 

“Thor, Thor…”

 

And – there. The base of his penis. Broad, full, throbbing. He opens Drax wider than he’s ever known.

 

Thor’s whiskers scratch his scars. “A god lives to be worshipped,” he tells him in a low-throated husk.

 

Then he begins to thrust.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

Drax loses time. He remembers it in flashes. Orderless, senseless, a-chronological.

 

He loses his grip on his buttocks, hand thumping the rock above his head like he’s tapping out from a wrestling pin.

 

Cum drools down his legs, puddling beneath him. He can’t tell who it belongs to, but the smell of it clings to his tongue.

 

Thor’s breath bursts over his back, humid as the jungle. Seams snap – _ping ping ping –_ as he hammers Drax full.

 

Drax laughs, half-delirious. Of course, Thor’s might is far too ferocious for any one shirt to contain.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

The god diminishes when they are done. The man returns in his place – a little bashful, flushing luminous, donating his ruined shirt to soak the white stripes off Drax’s legs.

 

“Sorry,” he says, although Drax can’t fathom why.

 

“There is no need to be.”

 

Thor rubs the sticky material under Drax’s balls, gathering the last of the mess. His raw energy subsides in the aftermath, transmuting into something more bumbling and enthusiastic. Drax wonders how much of it is an act, put on for the mortals’ sake and practised until it’s reflexive.

 

He dismisses that train of thought. It is needlessly complex. He will have Thor at face value, no matter which face Thor presents.

 

“I know that I am rather more… _productive,_ than most.”

 

“One is not named a god of fertility without reason.”

 

Thor grins, and just for a second he looks more carefree than Drax has ever seen him. “You had better not be hiding a womb up there, is all. I would not wish for any more bastards.”

 

“I assure you, all that resides beyond where your penis penetrated is my gastrointestinal tract and last night's supper.”

 

“Good to know.” Thor considers the ruined shirt, shrugs, and tosses it into the current. It sails over the edge and away, lost to the pound as the lake drains into the canyon a hundred feet below. When he offers Drax his hand – still a little slick, smelling of both of them combined – Drax takes it with no hesitation.

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

"I do like this realm," Thor confides as they wind their way across the borderlands: endless arable fields rippling with grain. The crops are amber, baked by the summer heat. They hiss against each other, papery and crisp, a whispering undertone to Thor's words.

 

"As do I." Drax smiles at the distant city, the voluptuous palace, the towers that scrape clouds from the sky. "My wife would have hated the noise. The civilians are far too exuberant."

 

"Your wife?"

 

Thor sounds panicked. Perhaps he is from a monogamous species?

 

"Hovat is dead," Drax assures him. "You need not fear her throttling you for putting your penis inside me."

 

"That is... good?"

 

"She would have approved anyway. She admired the ways my eyes cross during prostate stimulation." Drax sighs. "I miss her greatly. She had an excellent sense of humor."

 

Thor watches him from the corner of his eye. "She did?"

 

"Yes. She would wrench the heads off Orloni with her bare hands and mimic the squawks. It made me laugh until I needed to urinate."

 

"Wow."

 

"It was most amusing." Drax stretches his arms above his head, flexing until his spine clicks. His hole feels tender and pliant in remembrance of Thor’s thick girth. "Some days, I wake up expecting to hear her mocking the vermin as she crushes their skulls. I will lie there for five, ten, fifteen minutes, waiting for their squeals, before I remember that this is not a sound I will ever hear again."

 

Thor chews on his reply for half a minute. "I think," he says slowly, "I would've liked to meet her."

 

"She would've hated you."

 

"Ah."

 

"Do not take offence; she hated everyone at first." Drax smiles up at the sun. The last time he spoke at such length about those he left behind, Mantis cried where he had no more tears to give. What would she feel if she touched him now?

 

He hopes she would smile. He would like that.

 

Thor lets the quiet chirr of insects fill the space between them. Drax assumes that he wishes to walk back to the city in silence – but after another five paces, Thor opens his mouth, releasing a voice as hoarse as the grain husks as they scrape together in the breeze.

 

"I still look for him. Always, from the corner of my eye, as if he will be lurking in a shadow."

 

Drax does not have to ask which 'him' Thor refers to. "I know," he says.

 

Thor glowers at his fists. "I have picked up many snakes in the hope that they will stab me. But all they ever do is bite."

 

"You Asgardians keep strange grieving rituals."

 

Thor shakes his head. "No," he says. "Not grieving. Not this time. Loki _always_ comes back."

 

"You told us that Thanos broke his neck."

 

"And the year before that, a svartalf stabbed him in the heart. The year before _that,_ he fell from the Bifrost, into certain oblivion." Thor's jaw forms a bearded box. "Loki _always_ comes back."

 

Drax considers his next words before he speaks them. This is not a regular habit of his - he prides himself on his candor, as did the rest of his race. But his race is gone, and Thor is here. And while the truth is always correct, sometimes, just sometimes, it is not kind.

 

"I hope you are right," he says.

 

Thor sighs. Then he turns and wraps Drax in an embrace, gathering him up with the smell of their sweat, their sex, the ozone that crackles on the godling's peachy skin.

 

“It does not feel real." His arms tremble, just a little. "My kind live for millennia. Years pass like days. And yet, over the past one, I have lost near everything.”

 

If Drax presses their chests together their hearts beat side by side: his on the right, Thor's on the left. “I too lost everything in a day,” he says. “It… hurts.”

 

He thinks of Udonta’s funeral, and the gloom that clouded Rocket, Kraglin and Peter for years afterwards. It still flows out every now and then to engulf them when a certain song plays on the zune or Kraglin masters a new whistle.

 

He thinks of Mantis’s tiny hand on his wrist, the pathetic judder of her sobs.

 

There is a metaphor here. Drax just needs to find it.

 

Thor does not interrupt. He looks at Drax instead, even and unwavering, with a patience that could only belong to a god.

 

“The emptiness,” says Drax eventually. He clasps Thor’s upper arm, pressing on that beautiful divot between bicep and shoulder. “It will not be filled, my friend. Not by drink, or sex, or violence. But if you dwell on that… _hole_ , you will only bore it deeper.”

 

Thor _sags_. The strength leaves his body; his muscles drape loosely off his frame.

 

Drax is there to catch him. He bears his weight, a crutch on which Thor may lean. He will prop him here for as long as Thor needs, until he can find his own feet.

 

Preferably this will be sooner rather than later, as Thor is heavy and the ache in Drax's anus has spread to his pelvis and legs.

 

But pain can be tolerated. Drax braces himself. It is worth the burn, because Thor levers slowly, shakily upright, clapping Drax on the shoulder with an almighty sniff. His mouth remains down-turned, while his functional eye broadcasts every one of his years.

 

Peter-the-younger claims the man is a 'golden retriever' - an ignoble comparison to a domesticated household pet. Drax has never seen the resemblance until this moment.

 

“You are leaving soon,” Thor says, after clearing his throat several times and shuffling his feet. The Wakandan cityscape spans the horizon behind him, bright and welcoming, its earthen tones stark against the cornflower sky. “Aren’t you?”

 

Drax nods. “You and I may like this realm, but Quill does not.”

 

“It is a place of bad memories for him. I... I understand.”

 

He looks like he wants to say more, but cuts himself off. Drax is not good at guessing what is on other people's minds, so he decides to simply ask what is on his own.

 

"Will you come with us?"

 

Thor blinks, the lid closing a fraction too slowly over his mechanical eye. "I - I must defend Terra."

 

"Terra has its own defenders." Drax waves vaguely in the direction of the citadel, where Groot is mooching along behind Shuri and Peter-the-younger, mumbling _I am Groot_ in his hitching adolescent voice and pretending that he will ever belong. "And if Quill, born of this world, can leave it to its own devices, surely it is easier for you?"

 

Thor seems unconvinced. "I am a god. A sworn defender of this realm. Quill is... far from godly."

 

Drax can't argue with that. "What of your people?" he asks. "Did half of them not survive Thanos's initial attack? Those who were disintegrated will have returned by now - they will require leadership."

 

Thor clenches his chin until it crinkles. "They will have it. But not from me."

 

"Are you not their King?"

 

"Asgard is fallen. They have the Valkyrie - I know she survived. But Heimdall is gone. _Loki_ is gone. My mother and father are gone also, as are all my closest childhood friends. And I... I am not sure if I am _strong_ enough to... to tread where they are not."

 

It hits Drax with startling clarity. "Your Terra," he says, smacking his fist against his palm. Thor performs another lopsided blink.

 

"Excuse me?"

 

"The holes left by people's absence on this planet hurt my captain. They hurt him on the _Quadrant_ too, just as the holes left by your lost people hurt you."

 

"I... I suppose so. That is a good way of putting it."

 

Of course it is. Drax is an expert on metaphors now.

 

"You should come with us," he says, with a definitive nod. "That way you can help your people if they need you, but you do not have to live among them and suffer the daily reminder of your loss."

 

Thor laughs - not one of his usual bombastic guffaws or his fond chuckles, but an ugly little grate of a thing. "When did you get so wise?"

 

Drax mulls that over. "I suspect when I was approximately twenty, although I was an intelligent child before.”

 

That makes the corner of Thor's mouth tick up. "Mm-hm." He lopes back to Drax, flinging a comradely arm around his shoulder. The weight of it is perfect, dragging Drax against his side. "You're not just inviting me along so that you have twenty-four hour access to my godhood?"

 

"Is your godhood your penis?"

 

"I usually call it my 'hammer', but I suspected that one would go over your head."

 

"My reflexes are too fast for that," Drax explains, with admirable patience. "While I would enjoy engaging you in regular acts of coitus, your prowess in battle is also desirable. Especially as..."

 

_Gamora._

 

He remembers her then, all in a rush. The green of her skin, the smell of the little potions she used to massage into her hair during the single minute of luxury she permitted herself at the start of each new day. He remembers her exasperated huffs and her eye rolls that always ended in a smile. And most of all, he remembers her blade work: so fast and neat and _ferocious,_ each parry deft as a stitch, that Drax had no choice but to respect it.

 

To think that he once called her _whore._ He would disembowel any man who dared.

 

"We recently lost another," he says quietly. "One of the greatest warriors I have ever known."

 

Thor considers that, as they hop the style between the margins of the fields. "Peter Quill may not be pleased, if you select me as her replacement."

 

"Indeed, he may require convincing. But he has a good heart. Speak to him openly, and he will not refuse you." And if he did - well. It wouldn't be the first time Drax had settled points of contention via arm wrestle. For a feeble Terran, Quill certainly thought highly of his upper-body strength. "Anyway, you are no replacement."

 

"Because holes cannot be filled, right?"

 

Drax has clearly been spending far too much time with Quill, because it barely takes ten seconds for his brain to come up with the appropriate response. "I can think of one."

 

Another ten seconds passes, during which Drax assumes he has missed the mark, shrugs, and forges ahead to the city outskirts, where he will gorge himself on more briouat and warn Groot to enjoy his time with the Terran children while it lasts. Then Thor laughs, shakes his head, and jogs to catch him up.

 

"You are certainly something," he says, looping his broad arm once more over Drax's shoulders. It feels... good. It feels right. It feels - if he dares risk another figurative phrase - as if everything is slotting into place.

 

"I am unsure if that is a compliment."

 

"I assure you." Thor leans until the bristles on his chin rub Drax's facial scars. "It is."

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

"Well?" Rocket asks, as they load the last of the provisions into the _Milano,_ ready for their interstellar flight _._ "Did you do it?"

 

He must be talking about the sex. Drax beams at him.

 

"Indeed, we did. It was most energetic. We must make better preparations next time, however, as I found my next bowel movement of a concerning looseness."

 

Rocket didn't even bother pulling a face. "Great," he said, back against the compact cargo-cube Drax had placed on the floor of the main hold. "Real good to know, buddy. At least I know to time my bathroom visits around when you two fuck."

 

"Indeed, that would be most wise."

 

" _But,_ I was actually talking about protection."

 

Drax's eyes widen. He overbalances, teetering backwards, weighed over by the cargo-cube on his shoulder.

 

Thor's there, shoving at his ass to right him. His hands linger longer than necessary, then release him with a careful pat.

 

"Jane had similar concerns. You need not fear. We performed considerable testing and affirmed that my biology does not harbor any pathogens. Certainly none that could be transmitted during sex."

 

"Yeah, well." Rocket winks, black lip peeling off a fang. "If his bits start fallin' off, we all know who's to blame."

 

Thor grins back at him. "I'll take good care of Drax's bits. I promise."

 

"I am Groot," mutters Groot from behind him. Rocket nods along.

 

"That's right, buddy. They _are_ gross. Now, have you said bye to your friends?"

 

"You're gonna come back, right?" Shuri stands at the end of the loading ramp, frail arms crossed over her chest. Her hair, bound into ninety-three immaculate plaits, is piled atop her head in a way that reminds Drax of the threat displays of the frilled lizards on his homeworld, as if it will make her bigger. "You know. To visit."

 

The spider boy, bobbing at her shoulder, nods along. "Yeah. Mr Stark's a few years off building a proper ship for us" -

 

"A few months, with my help!"

 

" _But_ we have a whole bunch of other stuff to be focusing on right now. Y'know, clean energy and world peace and all that. I can't promise we're gonna be able to just blast up and say hi whenever we want, so uh. Visiting's on you."

 

Groot looks at Thor. Thor looks at Rocket. Rocket looks at Drax, and Drax looks at Peter - their Peter, that is.

 

Peter Quill, who died thinking that at least he'd see Gamora, his mother and his sort-of father again, then woke up a year later with no Gamora and no memories of the other side. No memories of if there even _was_ another side.

 

His eyes have sunken into his face. The events of the past week have weathered him, more even than the day after they burnt the old pirate who raised him, when Peter sat in the rear airlock with his zune earbuds wedged deep and watched the lightless ashes swirl.

 

Back then, Groot was the one to intrude on his solitude. With a child's cheerful lack of empathy he crawled onto Peter's knee and reached for the music. And, Drax realizes, by doing this, he forced Peter out of isolation, made him maintain his connection to those who were left.

 

Those like Gamora.

 

"I am Groot," he mutters with a fidgety shrug. Like it doesn't really matter either way - but even Drax notices the way his forlorn gaze flicks to the Terran children.

 

Peter rubs the back of his head, where Gamora used to wind her fingers through his thick ginger curls.

"Hell," he says. "Y'know what? Once you can concentrate on piloting for five minutes without getting out your game-cube, I don't see any reason why you can't fly yourself."

 

Shuri cracks a grin. The junior Peter pumps his fist. Even Groot perks up - which means he makes himself grow by a couple of inches, elongating at the knee. He thrusts out his chest to show off the single leaf that curls there.

 

"I am Groot."

 

"Yeah, yeah." Peter crooks a lopsided smile. "C'mon. If you're gonna learn to drive this baby, I'm gonna need you as my co-pilot. Rocket, you're fired."

 

"A-hole," Rocket grumbles, but it's good-natured and he dips the kids a nod before slouching towards the cockpit. "I better go along anyway. Make sure they don't blow nothing up."

 

"Later, Groot!" Peter-the-younger calls. "And Rocket - thank you for the schematics on out-of-atmosphere grav-generators!"

 

"Yeah!" Shuri waves as they trot away, backing up from the take-off pad. "You better be back soon, Groot, or your pop culture references will be outdated as Quill's!"

 

"They're not outdated!" calls Quill over his shoulder. "They're just _mature_!"

 

"And you guys!" Shuri points at Drax and Thor, yelling louder the further away she backs. "You best remember Warriormale!"

 

Thor waggles his fingers at her. "Indeed, Princess Shuri. I will find him hard to forget."

 

The children settle at a distance deemed safe for watching the launch, Shuri whipping out her holo-pad in response to Peter's starkphone and compiling a three-dimensional scan.

 

Drax turns so they get his best angle (although it is hard to know which to choose). He takes his last look at the Wakandan city, one hand steadying his compact-crate, the other gripping the _Benatar's_ airlock. The rubber is a little crusty, in need of emollient and glue.

 

Gamora, in her never-ending quest for efficiency, would've arranged all the chores into a rota and enforced them with scowls and threats of knees being introduced to groins. Who will do that now?

 

"Are you alright?"

 

They all will, Drax decides. They owe her that.

 

Thor stands at the bottom of the loading ramp, thumbs tucked in his pockets, squinting against the setting sun. He looks a little suspicious, as if he thinks Drax will revoke his invitation the moment he steps on board.

 

Drax deposits his cube atop the stack and strides down the ramp to prove him wrong.

 

"We will be," he promises Thor, grasping one slack pink hand. "One day."

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> **The smallest soupçon of research went into this. I am aware that the featured African foods are from several different countries across the continent - but then again, so are the styles gathered together and preserved in Wakandan culture.**
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> **I hope you enjoyed this fic! If so, please consider leaving me kudos and comments. My archive is mostly Kragdu (which you should absolutely check out if Grotty Old Domestic Space Pirates sounds like your cup of tea). I promise that I use the words 'penis', 'sperm' and 'ejaculate' a lot less when I'm not writing Drax-smut.**
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> **You can find me on tumblr at write-like-an-american and ask-a-ravager.**  
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